


Unexpected

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mollcroft, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: Mycroft glanced at the screen showing his front porch and blinked. Twice. “Well this is unexpected.”Molly Hooper flashed Mycroft a hesitant smile and hoisted her bag of takeaway higher, to present a better view to the camera. “I half expected you to already know I was coming,” she admitted, “but I kind of liked daydreaming about how I’d surprise you. May I come in?”(In the wake of Sherlock's death, Molly needs someone she can drop the grieving charade with. She figured Mycroft probably needs that too.)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 12
Kudos: 179





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amythe3lder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/gifts).



> Quick fic for Amythe3lder because she's had a crap week and hers was the first Mollcroft I ever read :-)

Mycroft glanced at the screen showing his front porch and blinked. Twice. “Well this is unexpected.”

Molly Hooper flashed Mycroft a hesitant smile and hoisted her bag of takeaway higher, to present a better view to the camera. “I half expected you to already know I was coming,” she admitted, “but I kind of liked daydreaming about how I’d surprise you. May I come in?”

 _I had no idea she even knew my address._ From Sherlock, presumably, but there was no earthly reason Sherlock would have needed to give her that information. Unless he was merely being petty. Mycroft threw his dove grey waistcoat back on--no sense appearing in his shirtsleeves--and opened the door.

“Oh! It’s actually you,” she said, a noticeable blush staining her cheeks. “Sorry, that sounds silly, doesn’t it? I just--from the way Sherlock talked about your house, I half expected a butler. Not that I’m not glad. Since it’s you I came to see anyway. Erm. This is a sympathy call, as far as anyone else knows. Offering to sit with you for a bit through this difficult time. I lost my mother last year, did you know? I was a mess for months. It’s been… painful. To have everything else be the same but knowing Sherlock won’t be stopping by at work again.” She glanced shyly down at the bag. “Anyway. I assume you eat curry? I brought a couple of my favorites. And, well. If you’re anything like Sherlock, you probably haven’t eaten yet.”

She was right, much as it galled Mycroft to admit it. And there was no sense standing around on the front porch in view of God and everybody. Mycroft sketched a small bow and ushered her into his foyer. “My brother never shared my sense of aesthetics,” he said drily. “You’ve seen his flat.”

“Actually I’ve only been there once, at that Christmas party last year. And, well. I expect John and the landlady had done a lot of straightening up first.” Her smile turned brittle. “It’s going to be hard on John, these next several months. He’s adrift and it hurts to see. Have you been watching him?”

Mycroft hadn’t, for precisely that reason. That’s what underlings were for. “I’m endeavoring to do what I can,” he equivocated. “Unfortunately he made his feelings about me _very_ clear at the funeral.”

“Can you blame him?”

“We’ve never seen eye-to-eye on the subject of my brother,” Mycroft admitted. “It was dislike at first sight, I’m afraid.”

Molly wrinkled her nose at him. “You did kidnap him and take him to an abandoned warehouse, or so John tells it. Kitchen?”

Mycroft wordlessly pointed the way, then followed her through the formal dining room into the much less stuffy kitchen area. He’d had an evening meal already planned, prepared daily by his staff and placed in his refrigerator in neatly portioned plastic tubs, but the takeaway bag smelled heavenly. _A little cheating on my diet won’t hurt._ Should be totally understandable to anyone who expected him to be grieving. Luckily his acquaintances didn’t tend toward gifting comfort food and traybakes, or he’d have been overwhelmed with false sympathy.

Ten minutes later, he was enjoying the heady taste of sag paneer and buttered naan and sharing a table with another human being in a non-work-related capacity for the first time in--well, ever, probably.

“Have you heard from him yet?” Molly asked, breaking the silence.

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t expect to until he finishes his current objective. It may not surprise you that Sherlock prefers to tell me as little as possible about his plans ahead of time.”

“No surprise at all. The rest of us are usually lucky if he fills us in after the fact.” She huffed softly. “John’s been good at that, too. The denouement. Making sure all of Sherlock’s pawns get a chance to enjoy the big reveal at the end. If I call him at the exact right time, I hear about it before it makes the blog.”

“Not all his cases end up as fodder for Dr. Watson’s authorial talents,” Mycroft pointed out. “Which I’m sure galls the two of them greatly.”

“John, definitely. Sherlock, I’m not sure.” She cocked her head and regarded him for a moment. “He’s in serious danger right now, isn’t he?”

Perhaps Mycroft’s lack of a reply was all the answer she needed.

“I know you two are keeping all the details secret,” she added, “but could you--would you please let me know if something happens? I… it’s hard having to pretend, but I can do it. I _will_ do it. I know Sherlock needs me to. But I’m going to be a complete mess if I have to pretend that he’s dead while I’m also terrified he will be. Probably somewhere nobody knows it’s him, nobody cares. I’m sure you’d get him out if everything went south, if you knew, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t tell you that either.”

“A major reason I’m not relying entirely on my brother to self-report about his welfare.”

She smiled at that, a sad little smile but it was there nonetheless. “A request, then. If it’s not too much trouble. Could I… could we do this again sometime? Every once in a while, when you’re in town and we’re both free? I don’t want to drop the charade out there” --she waved in the vague direction of the door-- “even for a moment, because I know someone’s probably watching. Maybe not Moriarty, but _someone._ And I think I’m going to need to drop it, sometimes, just to keep myself sane.” Her gaze flicked from the table to his own and then back down. “I suspect… you probably will too.”

As much as he would have liked to tell her she was wrong, that he was called ‘the Ice Man’ for a reason, Mycroft knew in his heart that she was correct. A confidante. Someone other than Anthea, more machine than woman. Someone as pure and _good_ as Dr. Molly Hooper.

Lord, he was going to hell anyway. What was one more sin?

“I believe that would be acceptable,” he said evenly, not giving anything away. “It won’t be often, unfortunately--I rarely find myself with anything as mundane as _free time_ \--but I would be honored.”

Her radiant expression was worth every potential lost minute.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe not fully deserving of the slash pairing tag, but I like to imagine this as the start of something very nice indeed :-)


End file.
